


A Freckled Sunset, I Suppose

by RunawayBean



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Confusion, Fluff, Getting Together, Kissing, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Sort Of, also sort of, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-19 05:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22905856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayBean/pseuds/RunawayBean
Summary: “Kiss me.”The words are out of his mouth before he can think and, before he can truly process what he’d uttered, Martin’s entire face has gone a lovely shade of maroon. It’s a bit like an odd little freckled sunset on his face and it’s stupid. Stupid. So stupidly cute. He’s choking, that much Jon can hear, and for a moment, Jon thinks he’s killed him or something drastic like that. Weariness is making him delusional, clearly, because something like that wouldn’tkillsomeone.Would it?———Regarding Jonathan Sims' sleep deprivation and Martin Blackwood's ongoing quest to attempt to bring some order to Jon's horrid sleep schedule.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 63
Kudos: 496





	1. I wish I could tell you

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> Welcome to another Magnus Archives fic. I've dived into the deep end of podcast obsession and holy shit do I have it bad. I may as well be drowning. I binged [the Magnus Archives](https://open.spotify.com/show/5pwBAjuJJAOt7cED5Lkjnk?si=C-r7_dCSSTGThu9kj4RTew) in a week and a half, listened to both [The Two Princes](https://open.spotify.com/show/70QlYnLX3izDdFhlKfOaeF?si=XgM1YAqDT02gDzs06_kgkA) and [Edge of Sleep](https://open.spotify.com/show/3NJbt2dlKfrL7VbWbrw2jq?si=B6jO8EIxRX24gz-DMt_F1Q) in one day (both in the same day) and now I've made my way through a quarter of [the Penumbra Podcast](https://open.spotify.com/show/0i9wErkPBogMmiSzygz3yj?si=JfhfYTsgTjqHQxCnJmvv4g) in approximately a day and a half.
> 
> Consider me obsessed with audible storytelling that isn't an audiobook! Huzzah.
> 
> Anyway, this fic is soft and sweet and another installment in my ongoing quest to bring the Magnus Archives fandom sweet things because damn it, if canon won't do it-
> 
> There is a bit of confusion near the middle of the fic, but it uh. It'll be resolved. Nothing too bad, and I'm considering writing a second part to this simply for the sake of my own wishes driven by my deliriousness due to sleep deprivation. 
> 
> I do hope you enjoy this uwu.
> 
> ~Nero/Cy

“Jon.”

No.

Jon absolutely and entirely refuses to be awake right now. He’d been awake all week (not that he was going to divulge such information to anyone) and he had finally fallen asleep the night before and he was definitely _not_ waking up now. It’s clearly been an awfully long time to be asleep, and his neck will be complaining for at least the next day and a half, but he had been blissfully asleep and-

“Jon, come on.”

“No.” Jon’s nose wrinkles and he hides his face back in his arms, already feeling the beginnings of a stabbing pain in the side back of his neck. But, again, he purposely ignores this and the person speaking to him in favour of letting his eyes stay shut. Perhaps sleep will find him again, perhaps it will drag him back under once more in a way that he won’t be strong enough to say ‘no’ to. That would be wonderful, really.

Passing out had never been particularly high on his list of things he enjoyed, but right now? Right now, passing out had never seemed so inviting. He wanted to sleep for the next month and a half, perhaps longer, and the person who was seeking his attention would not deny him this-

_“Jon.”_

Oh, for Christ’s sake.

Jon sits up and turns his head to glare sharply at the person who’d come to wake him up, vision too blurry and pain in his neck too strong for him to properly make out who it is. He’s blinking blearily, eyes almost pained with how raw everything seems, how dark having them closed had been, how _bright_ everything is. What kind of lunatic had he become to leave the lights on when he’d gone to bed?

The wood beneath his forearms finally registers and Jon looks down at them to find that he hadn’t, in fact, been curled up on his bed. No, instead, he’d been slumped over on his desk at the Institute, right on top of a pile of papers that he recognizes as the statement he’d last been reading before he’d fallen unconscious. There’s a cup of tea sitting on a pile of books he’d yet to read or put away (he can’t remember which) and there are about one, two, three… seven pencils scattered around his entirely too cluttered workspace.

With a grumble of something akin to a profanity, Jon starts putting the papers in order and tapping the bottom of the pile on his desk to get them all to stack nicely. Then he grabs the pencils and tucks them into the top drawer of his desk. There’s something buzzing in his ear this whole time and-

_(Fly on the wall, perhaps?)_

But then his name is clear through the buzzing and it becomes apparent that this is either a fly that can speak or it is very much not a fly at all.

It’s Martin.

Jon sighs and drops his head to the desk once more. “Martin.”

“Jon, you-”

“Have been asleep here since you left last night, yes I know.” He hears Martin shift his weight anxiously and he knows for a fact that he wants to ask something. So, after a moment of silent not-sulking, Jon looks up at him again and mutters, “Spit it out.”

“How did you know I…” Martin trails off and shakes head, “Nevermind, sorry. I just… You have a flat, right?”

“Are you asking if I’m homeless?” Jon retorts, glaring lightly.

Martin purses his lips, a spark of fear in his eyes, and he gives Jon a _very_ pointed once over that makes Jon’s hair stand on end. He’s sure he definitely looks homeless, what with his messy hair and old rumpled clothing, but he can’t really help that this is just how he looks, right? 

“You need a shower and a change of clothes.” Martin says, with an uncharacteristic amount of finality in his voice.

“I need sleep, which _you_ interrupted.” Jon mutters.

“Get up.” Martin grabs him by his shoulders and hoists him up. Jon blinks and barely swallows a soft ‘eep’ at that and, before he can protest, he’s being thrown over Martin’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes or something akin to that. 

For a moment, Jon can’t even properly process what exactly is happening here. Martin had never really been the confident ‘I am going to do this thing now without caring how other people will react’ type of person, and he’d always seemed less than comfortable being within five feet of Jon, so- so picking him up and hoisting him over his shoulder like he weighs nothing at all is new. 

Very new and very shocking and, had Jon not wanted to observe the phenomenon at work, he’d have yelled at Martin to put him down right that instant. Of course, it could have also been his absolutely exhausted mind keeping him still in a weak and fruitless attempt to get him to sleep again, but Jon is hardly thinking things through correctly and, as of this moment, he’s chalking it up to shock. A flimsy excuse, perhaps, but it is what both his rationality and his pride can agree on so it is what he is going to stick with. Later, when he is a bit more conscious, he may regret this decision (or at least think twice about it) but for now he is fine.

When he is gracelessly dropped onto something that could count as a soft surface, Jon grunts. But then, almost immediately, he relaxes into the soft thing and grumbles something under his breath because fuck this, he isn’t going down willingly after being dragged out of sleep so rudely. It’s probably a couch, judging by the way his left arm is starting to mash its way between two cushions beneath him. Probably the one that’s made of a cheap corduroy material that always makes the back of his neck crawl but is also somehow comforting in that stupid way…

“Jon,” Martin’s voice finds him (somehow) and it’s soft, kind, warm, and so achingly familiar. “When was the last time you slept?”

“You know,” the strength of Jon’s voice even surprises him, “They say that it’s not tomorrow until you’ve truly gone to sleep.”

“Then when are you?” Martin’s smile is audible in the way his words lilt.

Jon thinks for a moment, genuinely pondering this question for all its worth. Then, very quietly, he says, “I suppose I’m a week in the past.”

Martin barks a laugh and it warms Jon right down to his toes (sideways to his toes?), drawing something like a painted smile to his face, though it’s none so grotesque as the memories that statement brings up. He lets his eyes open and he watches, forcing himself to focus, as Martin laughs and snickers and tries valiantly to stop.

_(For my sake, probably. He’s always taking care of me.)_

Jon huffs a small, silent laugh to himself.

_(I’m an idiot.)_

“Martin,”

“Jon?”

“Kiss me.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can think and, before he can truly process what he’d uttered, Martin’s entire face has gone a lovely shade of maroon. It’s a bit like an odd little freckled sunset on his face and it’s stupid. Stupid. So stupidly cute. He’s choking, that much Jon can hear, and for a moment, Jon thinks he’s killed him or something drastic like that. Weariness is making him delusional, clearly, because something like that wouldn’t _kill_ someone.

Would it?

No matter, Jon drags his head from its position in the fog of exhaustion, sitting up and getting a not so good look at Martin’s face because his eyes just will not focus. He grips Martin’s shoulder for stability, which is poetic in a dumb way that almost makes him laugh again. On his way to offer comfort to Martin, he seeks support from Martin. Stupid stupid stupid.

And he is rather stupid, isn’t he?

Really, at this point, Jon isn’t even sure. But he grips Martin’s shoulder and gives him a weak shake that he’s not even certain actually effected Martin in any way, and he says, “Martin, I-”

“Jon.”

Jon’s words die on his throat, on his tongue, behind his teeth.

Martin slowly looks at him, _properly_ looks at him, and his eyes are the only things that Jon can properly focus on right then which should set off alarm bells but he’s _exhausted,_ damnit. Despite this being an odd and possibly bad sign, Jon maintains eye contact and keeps his words trapped behind his teeth. He will speak, eventually, but not until Martin has spoken. He isn’t afraid of what Martin will say.

Eventually, Martin seems to find his voice.

“You don’t mean it.”

Ah.

That crack in his chest shouldn’t feel as real as it does.

“You don’t mean it, Jon, you’re exhausted and delirious and-”

“Like hell I don’t mean it.”

Martin’s eyes are wide as dinner plates and that should not be as cute as it is on him. He blinks. Then he blinks again. Then Martin goes to say something and-

Jon regrets it as soon as it’s happened.

He pecks a kiss to Martin’s lips.

Nothing happens for a long, long time.

Then, very softly, Jon says it again. “Like hell I don’t mean it.”

Martin could have said something, he could have said anything, he could have gotten down on one knee right there and confessed his undying love for Jon right at that moment and Jon would never have been the wiser because-

Because sleep had finally reared its head at him and dragged him under, a selkie dragging him into the ocean by his hair.

His last conscious thought is something along the lines of: _‘We will talk when I’m awake.’_


	2. you light up the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He remembers that he kissed Martin. On the mouth.
> 
> He _kissed Martin._
> 
> Well.
> 
> That certainly brings him to a whole new level of ‘I Am Such An Idiot Sometimes.’
> 
> ———
> 
> For all that Jon Knows, he can't find his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> Welcome to the second and final part of this little drabble turned ficlet. Its short, sweet, and I love it to death because goddamnit these two need some sweetness in their lives. This is possibly one of the fastest little drabbles I've started and finished in a long time and it feels really quite good. I'm very happy with it.
> 
> No warnings are included in this fic, the only one that could ever possibly count would be 'mentions of a coma.'
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this uwu.
> 
> ~Nero/Cy

Dreams have been odd since he’d donned the Watcher’s Crown, they’d been plaguing him like nothing he’d ever experienced before, and it had begun to get annoying. He’d watch people suffer, he’d watch everyone he’d ever asked for a statement suffer through the events leading up to him finding them, everything they’d suffered. And it isn’t fun suffering by himself, but now that he wears the Crown and he Sees how these people have suffered, he feels it on a whole new level.

It’s painful and raw and hits him where it hurts and he isn’t even sure where that _is_ anymore. He isn’t human, so he’d begun to resign himself to the fact that things that would normally kill a person wouldn’t necessarily kill him. It certainly lifts a weight off his shoulders, and he’d even begun to wonder if his sense of pain would diminish…

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to watch innocent people suffer in ways that no one ever should. He’s supposed to be helping people, he’s trying to at least, but it’s so frustrating that when he became an all seeing being, he didn’t become an all _powerful_ being. 

Annoying. 

Not something he’d ever have anticipated being annoyed by (because who in their right minds anticipates becoming any sort of being?), but his life has been a chaotic hellscape for however long now, and Jon has given up attempting to anticipate anything anymore.

He dreams more often than he doesn’t, nowadays, which makes the rest he just woke up from all the more odd.

He didn’t dream.

At all.

When he wakes up, Jon doesn’t open his eyes because he doesn’t remember if he turned off the light before collapsing at home and he doesn’t want to get up from bed yet. So, like the very reasonable person he is, Jon keeps his eyes closed and lies there, waiting for his alarm to tell him it’s time to get up and attempt to make his hair look like it hadn’t been shoved under a toque for two years. He’s warm, really warm, and he finds something akin to a sleepy, barely there smile working its way onto his face.

Since when had his bed retained heat this well without being cold or scorching before? Since when had his covers not suffocated him when he awoke? Since when had he had a bed that almost felt like corduroy.

Wait.

Jon shoots upward with such force that he falls to the floor with a loud thump and a dismayed cry. His shoulder hits the hardwood floor at an odd angle and Jon winces sharply, scrambling a little to untangle himself from the frankly wonderful blanket as he blinks wildly, waiting for the world to come into focus.

When it does, it becomes apparent to him that he is most decidedly _not_ at his apartment, and he had certainly not been asleep in his own bed. He hadn’t been asleep in a bed at all, as the thing he is staring at is a couch made of a corduroy-like material. 

A very _familiar_ couch made of corduroy-like material…

It clicks and Jon groans, tilting his head back and staring blankly up at the ceiling in defeat as the prior evening’s events rush back into his freshly conscious mind.

_(Along with about three dozen other sets of events and facts that he hadn’t wanted nor asked for.)_

The floorboards squeak and writhe beneath him as he shifts and sits up, scrubbing his eyes with his fists. When he pulls his hands away, his vision is speckled with spots that shift in colour and brighten when he blinks. They remain for a few moments before Jon shifts and starts to climb to standing, mind only a little fuzzy. But he unfortunately stood up just a little too fast and his vision swims with shadows and he feels his knees buckle.

Thankfully, there is a wall (or a bookshelf, he can’t really tell which) next to him and he leans his weight gratefully against it as he waits for his vision to clear a second time. This wait is shorter and, before he knows it, he’s standing up on his own two feet and looking at what had turned into the ‘lounge’ of the Archives. Three couches, one easy chair and a coffee machine and kettle, along with bookshelves and what looked like an empty television stand occupy the room, and Jon revels in the silence for however long it lasts.

“You’re awake.”

He hadn’t heard Martin coming, but he can’t say he’s all that surprised or even startled by his appearance. Jon hums in acknowledgement and turns to look at him, standing up off the bookcase and brushing his static riddled hair out of his f had been getting long and he’d been considering getting a cut because, well, ninety percent of his job is reading and he can’t read anything if his hair is always in his eyes.

Martin’s smile is easy and a dimple on his left cheek swallows a handful of his freckles that definitely, 100% does not do something downright awful to Jon’s psyche. No, sir, it doesn’t do anything to his psyche because Jon is definitely Not Looking. And because he is Not Looking, he doesn’t acknowledge the faint heat rising to his cheeks as he remembers-

_(“Like hell I don’t mean it.”)_

He remembers that he kissed Martin. On the mouth.

He _kissed Martin._

Well.

That certainly brings him to a whole new level of ‘I Am Such An Idiot Sometimes.’

Jon clears his throat and avoids eye contact, only really hearing a fraction of what Martin says and, admittedly, he does note that Martin’s smile is still on his face the entire time. He seems as energetic as he usually does, hyped up on tea (or perhaps coffee) and ready to spill a box of files or something that would make Jon snort internally. That’s something that Jon’s always liked about Martin, how consistent he is. He’s not really one for mood swings and reacts almost always how you’d expect until he does something that you’d never expect and it’s like a breath of fresh air.

The cups of tea are set down on the coffee table with two soft _clunks_ and Martin finally turns to fully face Jon, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as he smiles. He says, “You look better already.”

“Do I?” Jon highly doubts he looks less like a mess, but-

“Less like you haven’t slept since 2006 and more like you haven’t slept since 2012.”

Ah. _That_ is something Jon can believe.

He snorts and shakes his head, too drowsy and tired to stop the faint and rather fond smile as it spreads on his face, probably sending a crinkle down the honeycomb scars on his jaw. Absentmindedly, he pushes a hand through his hair as his thoughts jumble themselves up like a bunch of cats being unsuccessfully herded. It’s a habit he’d picked up from Daisy, the hair not the thoughts, and it seems to have stuck and doesn’t seem all that intent to let go.

“Hey,” Martin says after a moment, “Do you feel a little better?”

When Jon looks up at him this time, Martin is a good deal closer, close enough that Jon could count his freckles if they both stayed still long enough. His breath catches in his throat because Martin may not be handsome, but he’s… really pretty, in an odd, cute, bookish sort of way. He’s certainly pretty enough for Jon to think he is, and it’s now that Jon realizes that he’s thought that way for a long time which is a sobering thought.

He must be particularly not self aware for something as glaringly obvious as _this_ to pass him by. He’s emotionally closed off, not an idiot, so this is… something of a new low, for all that it shouldn’t be something he beats himself up over. But, because it is unfortunately how he functions and, well, he beats himself up over it. Only a little bit. Progress?

Unfortunately for Jon, however, Martin must see some sort of signal in his eyes because the next thing Jon knows, Martin has got a hold of his face and is searching it rather intensely. His eyes go sharp in a way that Jon didn’t know was possible, and his mouth is pulled into a thin, tight line. 

The words seem to have been stolen from him because Jon opens his mouth to speak and nothing comes out but a silent breath. He tries valiantly to speak, clearing his throat a little and swallowing what little moisture remains in his mouth, but nothing seems to work until he makes a soft noise of confusion. It’s quiet, small, and something so out of character for him that he almost takes a physical step back to examine it. Almost. 

Martin’s hands remain on his face, unmoving. Jon can only guess what he’ll say next.

“Jon,”

Jon feels dread pool in his stomach.

“You have to sleep.”

Not as incarcerating as Jon had perhaps anticipated, but it still shocks him. Anything would have shocked him at that point, had it come out of Martin’s mouth.

With a sigh, Jon mutters, “I do sleep.”

“No, clearly you don’t.” Martin laughs, eyes glittering with mirth and smile returning. “You just passed out for ten hours and then passed out _again_ for ten more! You clearly don’t sleep enough if you’re tired enough to drop into what is almost a coma.”

That logic is something not even Jon could argue against, but that’s not to say he doesn’t try. He grumbles something under his breath, something not even he hears, and averts his eyes from where they’d been locked on Martin’s everything. It’s not exactly easy because Martin’s face is close enough to his that there isn’t much in his field of vision that isn’t Martin, but again. He tries. 

And then he desperately grasps for a distraction from this topic because conversations about his horrid sleep schedule are not exactly something he takes much pleasure in.

“So…”

Smooth, Sims.

“Last night.”

We’re getting somewhere.

“I kissed you.”

Jon can almost feel his own mental face-palm because he’d believed himself to not be an idiot but here he is. 

Martin’s eyes widen and his smile drops and he stares at Jon like a deer caught in headlights, like _he_ is the one that kissed Jon out of the blue. Neither of them say anything for a long time and Jon can feel the heat reaching its boiling point in his cheeks. He’s burning, burning-

“You said you meant it.” Martin’s tone is virtually unreadable, “And you kissed me.”

Jon swallows, throat a desert, and he nods. The movement is nearly imperceptible because of Martin’s insistent hold on his face which, after remembering its existence, causes Jon’s cheeks to darken even further.

“You want to kiss me.” Martin says quietly.

“I do.” Jon hasn’t the faintest clue where his voice came from.

“And you…” Martin pauses and Jon watches the cogs in his brain turn as he mulls over what to say.

Finally, Martin speaks.

“You realize I wanted to kiss you too.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but Jon can’t help but feel like he’s been put on the spot to answer a question in front of a crowd. He opens his mouth but nothing except for dry air and the last shred of his hope fall from his lips. So he closes his mouth, silent, and proceeds to feel like an absolute idiot.

Martin wanted to kiss him?

_(Martin wants to kiss me?)_

And before he knows it, Martin’s lips are on his and Jon can’t breathe.

Neither of them move much at all for two seconds and Jon isn’t even sure if he remembers how to kiss someone. But then the tension leaks out of his spine in one fell swoop and he practically melts into Martin’s embrace, eyes falling shut and hands grasping weakly for a hold on the front of Martin’s shirt. He kisses him back, feverish yet slow and nervous. 

He’s lightheaded, Martin breaks one kiss to press another to his lips, and Jon commits himself to memorizing the shape of Martin’s mouth.

It’s a long time before they part.

When they do, Jon has to catch his breath, ducking his head down and panting into the barely there space between the two of them. His hands shake where they’re gripping the front of Martin’s shirt. 

He shivers when Martin’s lips press to his forehead, one of Martin’s hands gliding up to brush his hair out of his face. Jon knows what scar he’s tracing, soft presses of his lips, brushing over his marred skin like it were a painting rather than-

“Jon,” 

Jon jumps a little and looks up at Martin, whose eyes are kind and soft and warm and everything Jon ever wants to look at for the rest of his life.

“Are you okay?”

Quite frankly, Jon had never been so ‘okay’ in his life. But he can’t seem to speak and so he just nods, pressing his lips together and trying not to collapse into a puddle of blushing, flustered Archivist.

Martin’s eyes crinkle at the corners with his smile. “Can I kiss you again?”

_By all means,_ is what Jon wants to say, but he can’t speak so he is doomed to nod. And when Martin kisses him this time, Jon is more than ready to be swept off his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the end of the fic!
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, drop a kudos and maybe a comment telling me what you think! If you want to yell at/with me, you can find me on [twitter,](https://www.twitter.com/RunawayBean_hq) [tumblr,](https://runawaybean.tumblr.com) and my [writing blog.](https://runawaybean.wordpress.com) And, of course, if you have any questions, then feel free to check out my [curiouscat.](https://curiouscat.me/RunawayBean)
> 
> Thank you again for reading, and I'll see you next time!
> 
> Nero/Cy~


End file.
